


Valentine's Day Smut

by twoofdiamonds



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 00:23:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17797532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoofdiamonds/pseuds/twoofdiamonds
Summary: It begins to feel like the two of them against the world(It is what it is)





	Valentine's Day Smut

 

  1. Wink



Long before the wink, Alex asks her work colleagues about the silent chef but they shake their heads and advise her not to bother. _We don’t know where he’s from_ , they say, _but English isn’t his first language. He’s grumpy_ , they say, _he won’t tell us_. Still, she admires him from afar. He’s a striking six foot and change; a giant of a man, and not bad looking either. Alex watches him through the hatchway that leads to the kitchens while she chats to customers, pours their draught lagers and works the coffee machine. He never glances up, only delivers the dishes at the hatch and responds in grunts and monosyllables when he absolutely has to.

The wink happens on a Friday. Alex rolls in fifteen minutes late thanks to a puncture and catches hell from Maria for it. She’s proud of the little Nissan Micra she saved up to buy, and it’s usually so reliable. It gives her the freedom to drive to college and allows her to work at the country pub, miles out in the sticks and a long way from the bus routes.

Maria is rushed off her feet and mostly relieved that Alex turned up at all. She slaps a stack of drink orders into Alex’s hand and bustles off to deal with something else. When Alex glances at the hatch out of habit, he’s looking right back at her. His usual poker face has disappeared, replaced by silent laughter. He _winks_.

She blushes hot all over and sets to work in a bluster, the shift passing in a blur of embarrassment. He must have noticed her watching him and found it amusing. She feels caught out, and duped by his strong and silent act. She wants to tell somebody that he’s a fraud; to share the revelation that the silent chef smiles, that he _winked_ at her. It would make her sound like a crazy person though and, so far as she can tell, the others couldn’t care less anyway. 

Alex enjoys her work tending bar and waiting-on.  She finds it easy to chat with customers and gets on well with the other staff. They laugh together out of earshot when wealthy grey-haired patrons make passes at them, and she earns a decent stash of spending money in tips.

The not-so-silent chef goes back to pretending to be invisible, and Alex tries not to glance at the hatch so often. It’s difficult though.

Smoking had started as a social thing, something Alex did outside bars and clubs, bumming cigarettes off college friends. These days she finds herself buying her own and sucking on menthol cigarettes every break. It’s during one of these smoking breaks that the silent chef becomes completely impossible to ignore. It’s his laugh that she hears first, easy and addictive. He’s on the phone and she listens to him speaking in disbelief. If she couldn’t see him through the ivy then she would never have matched the voice to the man. Then again, when she remembers the wink it makes perfect sense. He jokes easily with whoever is on the other end of the call in a deep and lovely voice, in unaccented English that hints at a combination of expensive education and lashings of self-confidence.

Later, at home, she thinks about his voice and his smile, and even tries to sketch him from memory. For days, while she’s driving or listening to music, she replays his laugh in her head. She’s not usually this dumb over boys. There have been boyfriends before of course, boys her own age, but they had turned out to be toe-rags, or there was just too much drama to bother. She had hated all the drama before but now it seems like every time she lies down there’s a shady gothic romance that wants to play out in her head. She might be obsessed. 

 

  1. Hands



 Opportunity presents itself at twilight on a Sunday. He’s emptying the bins and she’s in her usual spot, failing at blowing smoke rings.

“I heard you on the phone,” she calls, and he turns, picking her out amongst the greenery in the fading light. His face is carefully neutral. “I know you can talk,” she says, hoping that she sounds braver than she feels. “Why do you do it? Why do you pretend?”

He hesitates, glancing to the open door, before coming over to stand with her. “And what’s it to you, smoking girl?” he says, face relaxing into a sheepish smile. “It’s easier this way. I don’t make friends here because I don’t want any.”

“Oh.” She frowns, taking a final pull on her cigarette and crushing the butt underfoot. “Well, in that case…”

“No, wait.” He falls into step beside her and they stop just short of the door. “That came out wrong. I’m Chris.”

“I’m Alex,” she says, shaking the hand he offers her. It’s warm and rough, and it dwarfs her own.

“I know that.” His smile speaks of mischief. “Keep my secret Alex, okay?”

They start taking breaks together after that, by unspoken agreement. Alex receives perplexed looks from her colleagues but nobody really bothers them. Chris only speaks to Alex. It’s Chris for Christian, he tells her, when she asks, not Christopher. He hasn’t always been a chef, he used to be in the army. She’s surprised, mostly because she hasn’t met many soldiers before. “Why did you leave?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I did my time. More time than most.”

She learns more of Chris’s secrets as the spring evenings lengthen. He doesn’t sleep much and the chef job is one of two jobs that he currently has. The other is something boring in a call centre. He’s saving up, he says, planning to leave, to go globe-trotting or something.

Alex smokes her menthol cigarettes and Chris disapproves.

He tells her about skydiving and climbing mountains, about camping in starlit deserts and how sick he is, now that he’s back, of conversations about the weather and American TV series.

“And people just seem to want to talk about their feelings,” he complains, “All the damn time. No way am I getting stuck in their dull little world. I can’t imagine anything that would make staying worthwhile.”

There’s a tantalising point of ink peeking out of the sleeve on his left wrist. Alex watches it sometimes when they’re talking. He always wears the long-sleeved chef’s jacket and she wonders what the tattoo is, how high up it goes and how much of Chris is covered in ink.

She alternately complains about the grey-hairs who ask her out, and boasts about her bounty of tips. Chris listens and seems amused. It begins to feel like the two of them against the world. She becomes fixated with his hands. In her dreams he smiles at her the way he had smiled when she first challenged him to talk.

“So all this art you do at college,” he says, on an evening that’s slow but fine, and perfect for loitering amongst the ivy, “Does it mean you’re going to draw a portrait of me one of these days?”

“Maybe.” She can’t tell him that her sketch books are already full of half-finished pictures of him, except that she can’t quite get his mouth right. He raises an eyebrow and she realises she’s been staring at his mouth. “I only work for commission,” she clarifies, making her voice faux-plummy. “If you’re rich you might be able to afford to hire me one day.”

“That right?”

“S’right,” she confirms, taking his hand and laying his palm open. “You’ve got a nice clear lifeline,” she observes, tracing it with her finger. He snaps his hand shut, ticklish, but she prises it open and continues, “This is your head line, and this one here is your heart line.” She touches each line as she names them, softly with her fingertips.

He doesn’t look at his palm, only at her.

“Your hands are… strong,” she finishes, faltering.

He catches her wrist before she can let go. “And what about the future?” he says. “What do you want, Alex?”

Her lips part and she swallows. She has no answer, only that she badly wants him to kiss her.

“Time to get back to work,” he says, letting her go with a half-smile, as though she has given him the answer he wanted. She follows him inside, feeling insecure.

When Alex touches herself, in bed that night, she switches hands and imagines that her fingers are his fingers, coaxing her to climax.

At work, Chris returns her glances through the hatch, and when he looks at her now his eyes are always smiling.

 

  1. Deluge



The weekend of the May Bank Holiday is a wash-out, as usual. Alex is one of the last to leave after the Saturday shift, her little car almost alone in the rapidly emptying carpark. She gets as far as turning the key in the ignition but the engine turns over sluggishly, once, and then there’s nothing but the deathly silence of a car that has decidedly broken down. She lets her forehead fall to the steering wheel and rests it there, contemplating the long hours ahead, waiting for the breakdown people to arrive.

A hooded figure pushing a mountain bike approaches the car and taps on the window. “Can’t be that bad,” Chris says, when she rolls it down. “Pop the bonnet and let me have a look.”

“I thought you’d gone.” She fishes for the bonnet catch under the dashboard and he ditches his bike to take a look.

She feels guilty, sitting inside the dry car and watching the windows steaming up. He’s out there for a while, doing whatever he’s doing in the bonnet of her car, in the worst rain they’ve had for months. Occasionally he shouts, “Try it now,” but nothing works and the Micra shows no further signs of life.

Eventually, he lets the bonnet slam shut and comes to sit next to her in the passenger seat, dripping rainwater everywhere.  He laughs, unguarded and easy, larger than life somehow in the little car. His hair, usually tied back, is wild and curly, and looks darker wet. He runs a hand through it grinning. “Defeated by a Nissan Micra,” he says. The idea seems to amuse him. “Come back to mine? It’s not far. Walking distance only.” Reluctance must show on her face because he adds, “I promise not to try anything. No touching. I won’t even attempt any palmistry.”

“It’s not that,” she says, blushing. She wouldn’t mind if he tried something, not at all. “I need to call the AA and get it fixed.”

He nods. “I’ll stay with you then.” There’s a rivulet of water making its way down the side of his face and she reaches out to stop it, absently. It brings them closer. Chris watches her but doesn’t move to close the gap. His lips look wet and inviting. She moves in tentatively and brushes them with her own.

He follows her when she starts to pull away, catching her lips again and kissing her slowly. It’s long overdue and she opens to him when he cups head, his thumb brushing over her cheek and ear, setting off goosebumps across her neck and upper arms.

He doesn’t try to touch her anywhere else, just cradles her head and lets her clutch at his shoulders and arms. She pushes her fingers through his wet air and feels his lips curl against hers in a smile.

When they break apart she feels breathless and dazed. He leaves her hanging for a moment, eyes half-lidded, wanting more. “You taste of cigarettes,” he says, running a thumb over her lips.

“Sorry.” She tries to follow his thumb and catch it, to see how it tastes.

“It’s not so bad. Makes me feel like a teenager. Give me one?”

“You want a cigarette?”

“Just one. Then you’re quitting.”

“Oh I am, am I?” She hands him a long white menthol cigarette.  

“Yeah,” he says, grinning, lighting up and opening the window a crack. Raindrops spatter onto the beige plastic interior. “I reckon you are.” 

When they’ve smoked their cigarettes they walk home, and he pushes and steers his bike one-handed so that he can hold her hand with the other. She sends a text to her parents, leaning over her phone to protect it from the rain, saying that she’s staying with a college friend. It’s a regular enough occurrence that they won’t worry.

They arrive completely soaked to the skin. His house is like a show house, or maybe more like a hotel room with blank walls. He lends her a fluffy towel and some dry clothes, which are so massively oversized that they can only be his. She pulls the drawstring tight and rolls up the legs of the jogger bottoms. Her bra is soaked and she crosses her arms over her chest, feeling strange without it.

“Cute” he observes, flashing her a grin when she comes downstairs. There’s a large sofa opposite the television and two armchairs, and she only hesitates for a moment before sitting beside him on the sofa. She curls up against him, heart hammering, and he puts an arm around her and lets her rest there, tilting his head so that his cheek comes to rest against her hair. It’s already past midnight but they stay up by unspoken agreement, drinking trendy beer and watching re-runs of Family Guy.

When the adverts come on, he kisses her again, but he seems to be in no hurry, and goes back to watching the show when the advert finish. His arms around her are thicker with muscle than she had imagined, and covered in tattoos. The visible ones include a crowned coat of arms, a skull with roses, a stylised dagger and a swallow in flight. She traces the patterns with her fingertips and watches, fascinated, as it makes him shiver.

The fourth time she yawns, he squeezes her shoulders and drops a kiss onto her head. “We should sleep.”

She nods but doesn’t move to get up. She doesn’t want to move, not tonight and perhaps not ever. And she’s the one without any words now.

He squeezes her again. “Come on, I’ll show you the guest room.”

At the top of the stairs she pulls him to her, before he can send her away. He hums, a low pleased sound, taken by surprise, and backs her up against the wall, finding her bare nipples with his fingertips under the baggy tracksuit top as they kiss. When he draws away she makes an involuntary soft forlorn sound and he smiles but his pupils are wide and dark, pools of arousal.

“I mean it, you know,” he says. “I’m leaving, as soon as I’ve saved enough, probably only a few months’ time now. I don’t- I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Perhaps I’m angling to come with you,” she says, trying to make it light but somehow it doesn’t come out that way. Her voice sounds strange, like she just woke up.

He presses their bodies close again, and lets her feel the hard length of him, pressing it against her. “Is that really what you want?” he asks, and she thinks it’s hardly the time for travel plans. He traces his fingers over her throat and down across her collar bone. “You want to be mine? “

 She reaches up for a kiss but he stops her, taking her chin between thumb and forefinger. I didn’t hear you.

“Yes,” she whispers, feeling the heat of a blush spreading across her face at being made to say it. He lets her go and the kiss is deeper this time. He snakes his hands under her ass and lifts her, making her squeal in surprise.

She wraps her limbs around him for self-preservation. “Never mind about the guest room then,” he says, carrying her to his room. He deposits her on the bed and smirks, making her feel self-conscious, so she hooks him with her ankles and reels him in, getting the duvet over them and making him laugh.

“These are much too big for you,” he says, pulling her hoodie off, up and over her head before she fully realises what he’s doing. She covers herself instinctively but he pushes her arms away, cupping her small breasts and brushing her nipples with calloused thumbs, a feeling that goes straight to her cunt and makes it throb.

He sheds his own t-shirt and gathers her to him so that they’re pressed together, skin to skin. She moves restlessly in his embrace and can’t seem to get enough, of his body heat and his mouth. Chest hair tickles her nipples and the scent of him is overwhelming. She feels tiny and pale in comparison.

He turns off the lights and they lose the rest of their clothes. Rain batters relentlessly against the window and his hands are everywhere, stroking and squeezing, she can’t keep track. His mouth on hers demands kisses and his body all around her, so good, and so much skin. His cock is trapped between them and she moans faintly at how hard he is for her, a smear of wetness against her belly, and her own wetness between her legs. She’s so wet, embarrassingly wet; the tops of her thighs feel slick.

“Oh God,” he murmurs, finding it with his fingers and cupping her with his whole hand, smearing it around.

“I’m too wet,” she mumbles, embarrassed that she will be sloppy for him, and too loose. His hand feels good though, and she widens her thighs without thinking.

“No.” He pushes his fingers into her suddenly, making her gasp. “You’re perfect.” His fingers are thick and insistent but they work in and out of her slowly. She wants to apologise again, to tell him that she can’t come easily; won’t come like this, but the meat of his palm keeps pressing against her, massaging her cunt over the place where her clit lies hidden, and suddenly she’s not so sure. She clings to him, arms around his neck, alarmed that her body is responding in a way she hasn’t experienced before. “Shhh,” he says, although she hadn’t said anything out loud, and keeps on, pushing deeper and angling his fingers in a way that makes her sob. He adds his little finger, stretching her out, and brushes and presses over her clit.

It’s too much. She cries out as she comes, clenching her thighs around his arm and riding out the spasms.

“Good girl,” he soothes, bending up her knees and sliding his cock into her while she’s still quivering on the inside. She moans at the feeling of _rightness_ as his body settles over hers; trapped and full in the best possible way.

 

  1. Spark



In the morning she wakes to his kisses feathering her back and shoulders. They shower together, not talking much, not wanting to ruin the delicate new understanding blooming between them.

“So many tattoos,” she observes, tracing a snake over his shoulder blade with the soapy loofah.

“You jealous? We could get you one too.” He catches her wrist and bites it gently. “Here. Or here,” he says, kissing her shoulder, “Here,” the swell of her breast, “Or here.” He pushes his hand against her abdomen, over the place where he had been inside her last night.

His cock bumps against her thigh, half hard, and she takes it in her hand, squeezing gently. She strokes and holds him, feeling him grow all the way to hardness, loving the way it makes him groans and bite at his lip.

He turns her around, taking the loofah and trying to wash her in turn, but she backs up against him, wriggling, until he drops it and takes her by the hips like she wants him to. She feels like maybe she should complain, braced up against the wall with her back under the spray, but he angles her hips and pushes into her again, and all her clever words wash away in a rush of _ohgodyes_ sss.

It shouldn’t work in the shower, with their height difference, but somehow it does. She gets thoroughly fucked, rocking up onto her toes with every thrust. His hands on her hips are firm but gentle and she wants him to press his fingers into her harder, to leave marks on her like evidence. She lets her body move like it wants to, asking for more, and feels debauched, like she’s the star of her own porn movie.  

Abruptly, he stops, just when she’s sure he’s going to come, and shoves a towel into her arms. “I want to see your face,” he explains, turning off the water and pulling her back to his bedroom.

They end up on the bed again. His cock is thick and heavy, and she can feel every twitch and movement with her ankles up over his shoulders. She experiences an unexpected rush of pleasure, watching his face as he comes and feeling the flood of his release inside her.  

They don’t make it out of bed for long. At around midday they try for another shower but once again get distracted. Sunlight streams in through the bedroom windows, soaking their naked skin in a delicious way.

Chris’s stomach starts to rumble audibly by 3pm, so they order pizza. He insists on eating his slices off her body. She’s never really paid attention to him eating before. One moment the pizza slices are there, warm and a little disgusting on her belly, and the next they’re gone. She’s never witnessed anything in nature that eats so fast and she tells him so.

“What are you doing!” she squeaks, although it’s perfectly obvious as he presses his face between her thighs.

“Time for dessert,” he says, voice rumbling against her flesh and making her quiver. She has to abandon the rest of her share once his hands get involved. He uses his hands and mouth together to bring her to a shuddering orgasm and then steals one of her slices of pizza.

“Ride me,” he says, pulling her on top of him and squirming his hips to give her the idea.

It’s so easy to slide down onto his cock, too easy really. She starts to move her body gently, just to feel him properly inside, without really meaning to do as he says.

“Yeah,” he says, long and drawn out, “Just like that.”

She scowls and thwaps him on the belly. “I haven’t eaten my pizza yet, you know.”

“You had your chance.” He plays with her nipples, watching her face through half-lidded eyes as the arousal between them notches up. He tugs on her nipples and she stifles a moan, feeling herself clench around his cock. “Mmm, do that again,” he says, so she does it again, on purpose this time, and he flips their positions, pinning her hands above her head and driving into her hard and fast. He keeps at it, furiously, moaning loudly when he comes, before slumping down onto her, shaking from the effort. He rests his head on her shoulder.

She strokes his hair while she waits for him to recover. It’s damp with sweat.

“What have you done to me?” he accuses.

She kisses his brow and they sleep like that for a while. “Ugh, I’m lying in a wet patch,” she says, when she wakes.

“Think you’ll find that’s mostly your fault,” he says groggily, coming around, and then laughs. “Think you’ll find there’s more wet patch than bed at this point.”

She covers her face with her hands. “Oh my God, shut up.”

He prises her hands away and they kiss until he’s hard again, and he slides back in. “Not sure I can let you go,” he whispers, rocking gently into her and peppering her face with kisses.

“Don’t have to yet, we’ve got ages.”

They take their time, moving together slowly and it feels like it goes on forever. _We’re making love_ , she realises, _this is what they call making love_.

“We should really go to work,” he says, when enough time has passed afterwards that their voices are no longer in danger of wavering.

“But we’ve got ages,” she complains, glancing at the clock to make sure.

“Not if we’re going to get there on time. We have to walk, remember?”

Oh shit. She had forgotten all about her car.

 

  1. Love



Two months later, summer is well underway. They’re on a break together, trading kisses and secrets, hiding under the ivy.

“It’s all disgustingly Disney-ish, isn’t it?” Chris says, taking in the birds and bright hanging baskets of purple flowers with a sweep of his arm, a big smile of satisfaction written across his lovely face.

“I only wish I had a cigarette,” she says, trying to sound mournful. She makes pathetic _pap-pap_ motions with her lips in an imitation of drawing smoke.  

“No you don’t. It’s been, what? A month?”

“A month and a week.”

“You don’t need them.”

She huffs at his brazen self-assurance, but he’s right; she doesn’t. Not that she’s going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

They sit for a while, just listening to the birds. “Where shall we go?” she asks, a favourite subject.

“Wherever you like,” he replies, as always. “We’re free.”

He lets her play-bite the sensitive spot under his jaw but when his hands start to sneak under her bra she has to catch them and put a stop to it before they can get carried away. He groans but his grin promises sinful things later, in the sanctuary of his bed.

“Somewhere with a beach first, I think,” he says, picking up the thread of their conversation. “And when we’re bored of the beach, maybe some mountains. Have you ever been skiing?”

She shakes her head.

“Well, I’ll teach you. Then there are the prairies and plains… the whole world is out there waiting for us.”

She nudges him in the side. “No more dull little world?”

“We can come back here and be boring when we’re old and tired,” he says, eyes dancing. “I’ll wash the car on Sundays. You can pop out a few kids.”

“Oi!” She pokes him in the ribs again, much harder this time, making him laugh. He puts his arm around her.

She rests her head on his shoulder and breathes in the smell of him through the white cotton shirt. “Maybe now I get it,” he says. “Maybe I found the thing that makes it all worthwhile.”

They kiss. Every kiss is better than the last. She belongs to him completely.

“Where did you come from?” he says softly. “I thought I was done with love.”

“Looks like you were wrong.” She feels giddy, like somebody filled her up with champagne too fast, and the bubbles have nowhere to go. She smiles helplessly. “You and me? We’re just getting started.”

 


End file.
